


relay sport

by somethingdifferent



Series: (won't you let me) walk you home from school universe! [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, GO GIVE IT A LISTEN, Masturbation, it's in rey's POV!, outtake from (won't you let me) walk you home from school, takes place immediately after ch. 8, u can thank fiona apple FETCH THE BOLT CUTTERS, what can i say i get inspired i write a masturbation scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: Who gives a shit about Ben Solo?She thinks about this question while she gets ready for bed—slipping out of her one party dress, tugging off the heels she got discounted from Steve Madden, wiping the remnants of her red lipstick off with her makeup remover. Finn is right, she decides while she combs her hair, wrinkling her nose at the smell of beer and sweat that still clings to her skin. She had said as much herself earlier—Ben has never proved he's worth the air she wastes talking to him. Why should she waste any more talking about him? Why waste her precious mental energy even justthinkingabout him?Who gives a shit about Ben Solo, really?Not her.[rey/ben; (won't you let me) walk you home from school universe; post chapter eight; rey's pov]
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: (won't you let me) walk you home from school universe! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707403
Comments: 31
Kudos: 310





	relay sport

**Author's Note:**

> i have had a few requests for rey's pov in (won't you let me) walk you home from school, and listening to this one fiona apple song today (link at the bottom as per usual!!) i got really inspired to write a scene i have, thus far, kept solely in my mind
> 
> this is rey's pov immediately post chapter 8 of the fic, giraffes can't dance

** bonus: the good egg/the bad seed **

  
Rey complains about Solo for the entire drive back to the flat.

It's her _right_ , she declared in between hassling Finn to wear his seatbelt and gently turning the keys in the ignition of her car (too hard and it stalls, too soft and it won't start at all; after years of practice, she is an expert at getting the perfect balance). As the designated driver between the two of them, it is her God given right to: a) decide the topic of conversation and b) control the AUX cord.

Those are both easy: she plays Fiona Apple (for the appropriate backing soundtrack of righteous feminist rage) and yells (loudly) about how much she fucking hates Benjamin Fucking Solo.

There is a part of her, a very quiet, small part of her, that is aware that she is operating at a level that is perhaps slightly Too Much. Doing the most, as Finn would say; having a Big Feeling, as she would tell any one of her kids. That part—the logical part—is overwhelmed handily by the much larger part of her that doesn't really care how much she is doing, or how big a feeling she is having.

Rey has a right to have this feeling. It is going to be a Big Feeling. She's not stuck in the Plutts' house anymore, not a scared teenager in Illinois, crying alone on the “L” after being rejected by her rich, privileged, asshole father. She is going to have this feeling, she is going to express it, and she is going to be as loud about it as she damn well pleases.

Because Solo thinks he's _better_ than her, with his stupid expensive ties and his stupid fluffy hair—he, who has never had to command a room full of young children, who has never even had to handle more than one student at a time, who only has his job because his mommy gave it to him. He thinks he's _smarter_ than her, namedropping John Chamberlain like she doesn't recognize a backhanded dig at her art when she hears it, like she didn't already have to sit through her professor in college hemming and hawing until finally telling her that using scrap metal in her sculptures might—just might—come across as a tad bit _derivative_. He thinks she's young and green and ignorant, thinks she's small, thinks she can't handle herself or her classroom (at least she showed him how wrong he was about that—she so relished him having to admit she knew what she was talking about with her kids). He thinks she's a—a nobody. A little _nothing_.

And now, insult of insults, he even thinks he's a better fucking _dancer_ than her.

“Me!” she shrieks, merging too sharply onto the left lane of the freeway. Finn grumbles at the sudden jerk of the car, leaning his head against the window with a pathetic moan. “He seriously thought he could give _me_ some pointers, like I can't decide for myself how I want to dance, like he was trying to _help_ me!” She's not going to tell Finn about the...hands-on part of Ben's instructional method. It was hardly even anything, so he doesn't need to know. “Of all the rude, pompous, arrogant, spoiled, selfish—”

“Rey,” Finn bursts out, interrupting her endless list of adjectives (which, for the record, was going to incorporate something about him having a small dick). “I get it. You hate Solo. Can you just—can you drop it? You're giving me a headache.”

She shifts in the driver's seat, easing up on the accelerator slightly. “Sorry. I just—” Her fingers curl around the steering wheel. The speedometer has her going seventy-eight, which does not bode well for how fast she was driving before. “I really fucking hate him.”

“Yeah, I'm not a huge fan either, but he's Poe's friend.” Finn reclines his seat slightly, resting his hands on his stomach. “You're going to have to see him around, and you constantly complaining about him isn't going to help you get over it.”

She huffs out an angry breath. “I don't _constantly_ complain about him,” she grumbles.

“Oh yeah? I have a great many wasted minutes of my lunch period that beg to differ.” When Rey does nothing but huff slightly and grip her knuckles tighter on the wheel, he continues, “You know guys like that actually _enjoy_ being huge assholes. They get off on it. The best thing to do would be to ignore him.”

Rey snorts. “Are you seriously telling me to implement one of the problem solving strategies you teach your babies?”

He grins. “I am, actually. And it works. So just—try to cool it with the shit-talking, okay? For your own sake.”

She nods vaguely, her brow furrowed. “Yeah. Yeah, you're right.”

“Damn straight I am.” Finn lets out his breath in a rush, resting his head back on the headrest now that Rey has agreed with his suggestion. “And besides,” he adds quietly. “Who gives a shit about Ben Solo?”

She thinks about this question while she gets ready for bed—slipping out of her one party dress, tugging off the heels she got discounted from Steve Madden, wiping the remnants of her red lipstick off with her makeup remover. Finn is right, she decides while she combs her hair, wrinkling her nose at the smell of beer and sweat that still clings to her skin. She had said as much herself earlier—Ben has never proved he's worth the air she wastes talking to him. Why should she waste any more talking about him? Why waste her precious mental energy even just _thinking_ about him?

Who gives a shit about Ben Solo, really?

Not her. So why should she be so upset about it?

“Fuck him,” she mutters to herself, still livid. “Stupid prick.”

Finn is right, too, about the fact that she's going to have to see him all the time, regardless of her own personal feelings about it. And there's also the matter of Leia's invitation to Thanksgiving, something she'd thoughtlessly accepted, glad that she and Finn would both have someone to celebrate the holiday with—Rey, for obvious reasons, won't be going to see her one living relative, and Finn is estranged from his family, has been since he turned eighteen and was, without warning, booted out of the house he grew up in. It's why they get along so well, why they bonded so quickly when they met at a PD over the summer and moved in together shortly after that.

They, who were supposed burdens, refusing to accept defeat and deciding, instead, to make their own little family.

Still. It would be nice to celebrate something—even a completely American holiday like Thanksgiving—with a _real_ family. Even if it's not and never will be hers.

Rey had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that Ben is the kind of son who doesn't go home, who couldn't care less about familial obligations and dumb things like holidays. But he is, and he will be there, as Leia had made so clear to her when she checked in with Rey last week. So, there's that.

And Finn is probably right, as he often is. She should probably try to bring up some kind of peace negotiations the next time she sees Ben, considering they will need to put on a show of that they get along just swimmingly for the sake of saving his family the trouble of a knock-down, drag-out fight over the turkey and mashed potatoes.

That, however, is a problem for tomorrow Rey. Tonight Rey is going to get the rank smell of bar and desperation out of her hair.

She drags herself away from her sink and goes to the tub to draw herself a bath. Sure, she could just hop in the shower and get the process over with, but Rey grew up having to diminish herself, make space for anyone but herself, hoping that if she was small and quiet and happy and meek enough that one of her foster families would see how good she was and want to keep her.

She's going to have this feeling, this Big Feeling, and she is going to let herself luxuriate in a bathtub and ruminate as she does so, and she won't feel even a little bit guilty.

The water is hot, just barely on the right side of not-quite-boiling, when she plugs up the drain at the bottom of the porcelain and settles into the tub to let it lap over her body.

She sits. She ruminates. She ponders. She reflects.

 _Ben Solo is a dumb name,_ is all that her brain seems capable of conjuring up. Which, alright. She can work with that.

“Dumb,” she whispers to herself, stretching her legs out in front of her. The water rushes down over her toes, near scalding, but it's a good feeling. “Fuck him.”

 _Yeah,_ says her brain. _Fuck him. He thought he was so much cooler than you, didn't he, thought he could learn you a thing or two._ Joke was on him—he couldn't dance with her for more than two seconds before conceding her victory. Probably because of how terrible and bad he is. He was too chickenshit to admit he couldn't dance, and then he was too chickenshit to even fake it convincingly.

Although.

There was.

There was that one moment at the very end, right before he let her go. When he suddenly jerked her body into his and shoved his leg between hers. His hand on her back was fucking giant; how has she never noticed that before? How big his hands are. It's unnatural is what it is. And there was this look in his eyes—dark and intense and focused. Like all of his attention was fixed on her, every single atom of his being fixed on her. That was...weird.

And bad. Weird and bad and not good.

Rey scoffs, rolling her shoulders back. The dueling sensations on her skin—the heat of the water, the cool of the air—make her shiver, her nipples peaking into hard little buds. The water gathering under her back is steadily rising, moving gently around her sides, between her legs.

 _His hand was really big_ , her brain supplies unhelpfully. His palm was practically the same size as her entire back. His fingers digging into her dress, his thigh between her thighs—

Rey’s decently tall, for a woman. She works with little kids all day who are much shorter than her, and she exercises to keep herself busy and in shape. It’s not often she feels small. Next to Solo, she felt almost...petite. Dainty. Delicate and breakable.

His hands and, when she was pulled into it, his chest. He was so muscular under her fingertips, all of him big and broad and tall. And his shoulders, Jesus Christ. It would be so easy, ridiculously easy, for him to lift her up, if he wanted to, and then she remembers he already did before, already carried her in the supply closet. They were so close when that happened, it was so strange, how she felt when she fell into him, like all the air had been sucked out of the room and her heart was beating up in her throat, and okay, maybe she had more to drink that she thought because what the _fuck_.

“Fuck him,” she repeats, but it lacks the right kind of fervor this time. She splashes water under her hands, frowning.

What does it matter if he’s huge and built like a brick shithouse? Who cares? Anyway, he is kind of ugly, actually, with his small eyes and long face and sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose and disproportionately full mouth. He looks like...she doesn’t even know who or what he looks like. He doesn’t really look like _anyone_ she’s seen, at least in real life. He looks super, _super_ weird.

 _Super weirdly hot_ , her brain says, and Rey is starting to wonder just whose side that thing is on anyway.

She shakes her head, wriggling down so that her knees are bent higher and her head is resting flat on the bottom of the tub. She’s probably too tall to take a decent bath in something this size, but whatever.

She is going to stop thinking about Solo, she decides.

She waits a minute.

She does not stop thinking about him.

With a groan, Rey shoves her arms over her head, pressing behind her at the wall of the tub in frustration. This, coincidentally, pushes her closer to the rush of water still pouring from the spout at the other end. The torrent of water falls, splashing right in the middle of her knees, and then Rey gets An Idea.

It is either the best idea she’s ever had or the worst.

What she needs, she figures, is to work out a bit of frustration. And that, hopefully, will take her mind off of stupid Ben Solo, her worst enemy—if people can still have enemies in the twenty-first century and all that.

Rey wiggles gracelessly in the direction of the spout, widening her knees as she does. Her head, now, is half under the water line and half above it, and she lifts the upper half of her torso, thanking her past self for all of the Pilates videos that keep her abs from screaming in protest.

Her ankles hook around the top of the faucet, and she shimmies forward slowly, carefully, hissing a little at the sting of heat on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

And then she positions her cunt directly under the hot gush of the faucet.

The effect is near immediate: her ankles locking together, toes curling, nipples getting impossibly tighter and harder. Rey can’t help the little squeal that spills out of her lips at the sudden, overpowering stimulation direct on her clit.

“Fuck,” she whines. “Fuck, yeah, that’s—”

It’s not like she hasn’t used this particular method before; it’s just this flat has much better water pressure than anywhere else she’s lived. It’s overwhelming, in the best possible way.

Her hands, which had been gripping the edges of the tub, lower instinctively to palm her tits, rubbing and pinching and rolling her nipples in between her fingers. She lets out a hoarse cry at the feeling, at the way the water drums steadily down on the apex of her thighs, keeping up a relentless barrage of sensation.

She comes, quickly. She almost doesn’t feel it, the orgasm almost lost in the deluge of water, and she jerks her body away just enough, letting the water fall back in the space between her legs.

There’s a strangled noise of frustration that is ripped from the back of her throat, because it’s not enough, it’s too much, she needs _more_ , and Rey slides forward again, her clit throbbing, her pussy swollen and flushed a darker pink.

Again, she decides. One good one, and then she can go to bed, relaxed and loose-limbed and mindless.

This time, it’s better than before. Her first orgasm left her body sated, if only barely, and the second is slower to build, a steady, gentle tide rolling through her limbs. Her eyes screwed shut, she plays with her tits with one hand and slides the other to her legs, tracing the inside of her thighs the way a lover would, right before he curls a finger inside her.

 _Enjoying yourself?_ he would say, smirking that stupid smirk that she hates. His hands are big, way bigger than hers or any of the other guys she’s slept with (there were only two, but who’s counting?)—one finger from him would probably be the same as two of her own.

Rey tries that—slips her fingers between her legs and crooks two of them inside and up. Fuck, that’s good. She can almost imagine that in his voice, too, what he’d say about her cunt, how wet and soft and needy she is for him: _fuck, that’s good_.

Her hips twist, rocking her body up and down, the slightest of movements, while she chases her climax, with her hand still pinching her nipples and her fingers thrusting in and out, obscene wet sounds filling her ears, and her mouth open and letting out the most embarrassing noises.

He would like that, though, like her whimpering and whining and begging for his touch, the arrogant bastard. He’d praise her, tell her awful, indecent things about what he’d do to get more of those sounds. _I’ll fi_ _ll you up with my fingers, my cock, I bet you’d like my mouth on your sweet little cunt, too, wouldn’t you, you can have that if you’re good, bet you couldn’t ignore me then, not even if you actually_ tried _—_

It’s only another few seconds, a few more frantic pumps of her fingers in her soaked channel, and she’s coming again, harder than before. It seems to go on forever—she fucks herself on her fingers through every little tremor, aftershocks of pleasure rippling through her body with every fresh pulse of water on her clit.

Finally, after a long moment, she pushes herself away from the spout, the pressure suddenly too much for her oversensitive pussy.

She gulps in air, letting her head tip back into the water. It's now almost entirely filling the tub, sloshing around her shoulders.

There, she thinks, satisfied. That got her mind off of Benjamin Fucking Solo.

Her eyes fly open.

Rey struggles into a sitting position, twisting the handles of the tub until the water finally stops. In the tiled bathroom, the heaviness of her breathing is much more obvious; she’s basically panting. Her chest is flushed, the skin of her inner thighs and the folds of her cunt a bright, fire engine red.

She doesn’t know the feeling she is having, but it definitely is a Big one.

Because: what the fuck.

Because: what the actual, living _fuck_.

Because: she didn't stop thinking about him. Instead, she just fucking _came_ to the thought of Benjamin Fucking Solo.

“God fucking damn it,” she groans.

**Author's Note:**

> [ I resent you for being raised right. I resent you for being tall. I resent you for never getting any opposition at all. I resent you for having each other. I resent you for being so sure. I resent you presenting your life like a fucking propaganda brochure. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OI1KfJTrixQ)


End file.
